


Levels

by wunderxfunk



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderxfunk/pseuds/wunderxfunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returned his phone’s stare. He was back now—it should be so easy.<br/>‘I’m not dead.’<br/>All he had to do was hit ‘send’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Predatory Art of Stalking

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Johnlock fan fiction. Please let me know what you think. :) I hope to post more very soon.

‘I’m not dead.’

Sherlock had typed the words so often that they had become a programmed response in his phone. As soon as he hit the first letter, the phrase would appear as a suggestion—a hollow, lonely echo. _I’m not dead._ Bouncing off the chilled walls. _I’m not dead._ Hitting a new world of solitude at every level. At every circle of this hell. He hated his phone.

He used a tissue to wipe away a smudge of hair dye on the faucet. Molly would not be please if he left stains in her sink. Particularly not after the marks in the wall from his using her forks for target practice. He should honestly try to be more considerate.

In the mirror, Sherlock beheld a self that he had not seen in quite some time. Dark curls and a clean-shaven face. A bit bronzed, but that would fade at an alarming rate.  His skin was not one to hold a tan. Over the past three years, Sherlock had donned a myriad of new appearances, including quite an array of hair colors, eye colors, and wardrobes. To be back in London, wearing his own clothes, looking at his own face was… well, it was a slight improvement.

Stepping out into the living room of the well-lit flat, Sherlock returned his phone’s stare. He was back now—it should be so easy. Mycroft had assured him that John was still living at 221B. However, Molly did not seem to think it was such a wise idea to suddenly reappear back into his best friend’s life. Apparently, John had finally “moved on”, and it was questionable whether Sherlock’s presence would really be good for his healing. _“The way he sees it,”_ Molly had explained, _“you died. Coming back doesn’t change the loss that he experienced.”_

‘I’m not dead.’

All he had to do was hit ‘send’. Even though it was a new number, John would know immediately who was on the other side of the text. _How could he not know? How could he really believe I am dead?_ It almost hurt Sherlock, knowing that John had accepted his death. Knowing that he was not convinced that, somehow, the consulting detective had survived. Then again, there had been the body, the absence of a pulse, the blood…

Sherlock cleared the screen of the message and flicked his wretched phone onto an armchair. He could not bring himself to do it. Based on the reports from Mycroft and Molly, he had done enough damage. He had never meant to hurt John. Despite the determined whirring of his mind, he apparently had not sufficiently thought this magic trick through. The sentiment. _The nasty sentiment._

In an effort to gain an ounce of emotional perspective (something that Sherlock often had a terrible time with) he attempted to imagine himself in John’s situation. _That does not make sense. John could never fool me into thinking that he was dead._ But then he realized that the current situation was very real to John. What if John really had died? What if one of the countless mental images that Sherlock had of his friend with the barrel of a gun pressed to his head had come to bloody fruition? And then Sherlock felt. The sensation was something along the lines of nausea combined with a slight tilt of his inner axis. His pulse hammered away, and he sat down on the edge of the sofa and leaned forward, breathing away the terrible feeling.

_I’m so sorry, John._

Sherlock reflected on his own past three years. They had, by no means, been easy ones. He could not count the number of shoddy hotel rooms he had stayed in, conversing with static screens and night stands. The desolate wishes upon the glow of digital alarm clocks reading single-digit morning hours— _please don’t let him hate me. John. Please don’t hate me._

Now Sherlock was making his way to his jacket, trembling fingers clawing into his pocket for a lighter. Within moments of retreating onto the fire-escape, he parted his lips to welcome the filter of a lit cigarette. His manner of inhalation was frantic. His vice had returned, stronger than ever, after a month of being alone. His mind was beginning to feel entrapped in a shell knitted together by toxins. At least he had mostly stuck to cigarettes, avoiding some of his past… problems. Nevertheless, alone could no longer protect him.

 _I really need John._ The admission was certainly humbling, and it was by far not the first time that Sherlock had made it to himself. Now that the prospect of reconnecting with his friend was a possibility, the need intensified. Perhaps there was some way Sherlock could reinsert himself into John’s life without causing further destruction. He would have to do some research.

The sound of a key in the locked front door of the flat roused Sherlock from his rapidly-developing plot. Molly was approximately ten minutes early coming home from her shift at St. Bart’s. Sherlock glanced down at his half-finished cigarette, debating whether or not to put it out. Molly was not fond of his habit. At least he had stepped outside, despite the freezing cold wind that now raged against the back of his jacket and collar.

“Sherlock?”

“On the escape.” Sherlock called to her, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. Self-control could be grappled with another day.

Molly stuck her head out the window. “Back to brunette? I like it. Much better than that gingery color you had earlier.”

Sherlock offered her a slight smile before inhaling once more. Molly’s expression turned to disgust, and she reached out and snatched the remainder of his cigarette, tossing it over the railing.

“It is by the grace of God that I don’t dismember you, Molly Hooper.”

Molly just grinned and shook her head playfully. “The grace of God and my unusually comfortable couch. Come inside, Sherlock. You’ll freeze.”

Sherlock climbed back into the flat through the window, careful to shut it tightly behind him. The smell of garlic permeated his nostrils, and he realized that he had not eaten since Molly’s somewhat forceful dinner offering the previous night. “What’s for lunch?”

“I brought the chicken you said you liked before you left.” Molly offered him a plastic container. “Do you remember? I think it was your last night here before…”

She did not need to finish. They both recalled Sherlock’s unannounced departure, only one week after his fake suicide. As soon as the injuries he had sustained were manageable, he fled from London without a word. Some unfinished business to attend to. Perhaps he should have warned Molly, but he did not wish to deal with any potential protests. Rather, he was abrupt and secretive. _Why not? It fit with everything else that happened._

“I do recall. Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock took the container, and his fingers grazed hers. He heard her quick, almost-silent inhalation. His eyes flicked upwards to catch her pupils dilate. _She is wearing  new mascara. Took me this long to spot that. I’ve grown too lazy._ So she still had feelings for him. A pang of guilt caused Sherlock to avert his eyes. He did not wish to take advantage of Molly’s kindness when she was so compromised by emotion. _Nasty sentiment again._ However, he didn’t see an alternative, at the moment. He did not have an identity with which to establish living quarters for himself, and there was zero probability that Sherlock could stomach a stay with Mycroft.

As they sat down at the small table, Molly took up her role in needing to fill the silence. “Other than your change in appearance, did you do anything interesting today?”

Sherlock sighed. “Oh, I hesitate to use the label ‘interesting’. Five cigarettes, two minor house fires—don’t worry, I put them out. If I were you, I would consider using a different brand of shampoo. Apparently, ‘all-natural volumizing serum’ is code for floral-scented swill.”

“Oh…” Molly’s eyes fell to her meal. “Well, thank you for that… advice.” The silence returned, much to her obvious discomfort. Sherlock decided to make an effort.

“I may be stepping out for a bit tomorrow morning,” he paused and considered. “Actually, I will probably return very late.”

Molly looked surprised. “Where are you going?”

“Research.”

“Does this research, by any chance, involve John Watson?”

Sherlock brought a forkful of meat to his mouth. He responded with deliberate chewing.

“Be careful with him, Sherlock. He was devastated.” Molly’s tone was now laced with a maternal sternness. She then echoed Sherlock’s own instruction to himself. “Try to be considerate.”

Slowly, Sherlock swallowed his food. “I will not allow him to see me, Molly. You have my word.” And he meant it, but just because the army doctor would not see Sherlock did not mean that Sherlock would not see him. The game was on.

‘I’m not dead.’

 

***

 

_Perhaps I should have held off on dying my hair._

Sherlock stood in queue for a newsstand one block west of 221B Baker Street. He had been loitering in the general vicinity since before 8 a.m. It was near noon, and John Watson had yet to leave the flat. Sherlock had it on very good authority that today was the doctor’s day off. Still, no one (not even Mrs. Hudson) had entered or exited the flat all afternoon. He didn’t dare move closer to investigate yet, particularly not now that his appearance was back to normal.

As he handed over money to pay for the newspaper, Sherlock finally spotted John approaching from the opposite direction, two blocks away. It was then that Sherlock let his instincts kick in. Over the past three years, he had spent weeks on end in pursuit of various persons. The predatory art of stalking was almost second nature to him.

Shaking open the paper to cover his features, Sherlock glided on long limbs towards the corner, his brain making the necessary calculations. Variables of gait, distance, and walking speed danced in his mind, and he automatically increased his pace as he turned left. The consulting detective darted across the street to the alleyway that he had mapped out in his head. From there, he would emerge within sight of the flat just as John was opening the front door.

His calculations were correct, and John was turning the knob as Sherlock rooted himself about ten yards away, tossing the newspaper aside. _John._ He reached out an arm to brace himself against the brick as he widened his eyes to observe. _John._ He would not come any closer. He would not put a hand on his best friend’s shoulder and turn him around to see his face—to look into John’s eyes. Because he did not know what he would find in those eyes.

 _What if it’s hatred?_ That cold, dark fire in any other person would matter very little to Sherlock. Perhaps he’d feel a rush of endorphins, or even amusement. But seeing those icy flames in John’s eyes, Sherlock thought, could be irreparable. The worst feeling. He would have nothing to warm him.

Despite this acute awareness of his increasing vulnerability, Sherlock kept his focus. He had only a few seconds to learn everything he could about John. Wrinkled clothes, second day’s wear. Un-showered. So he had not slept there last night. _Huh._ His hands were chapped from the cold wind—he must have walked at least eight blocks. Did not take a cab, though.

Sherlock squinted, putting his excellent eyesight to good use. There was something on John’s pant legs. Fur? Perhaps his companion for the night had a pet. _Companion._ The flood of emotions that accompanied that thought surprised Sherlock even in his newfound state of defenselessness. Well, of course there was jealousy. Another person was spending time with John when he himself was deprived his friend. John was the only thing that motivated his return. In fact, with the boredom that Sherlock was enduring while being out of work, John was one of the few sources of motivation for his continued existence. _This situation really will not do._

 _Focus._ He was finding it extremely frustrating, being such a distance away. Perhaps he should approach. In mere seconds, John would be gone, and Sherlock had hardly been able to spot anything at all. _Hasn’t had a haircut in two months. The limp has returned, but seems to be wearing off. No new clothes, but nothing particularly tattered._ All of Sherlock’s observations simply confirmed Molly’s assertion that John was living his life. He was healing. Apparently, this “research” would only  further the hypothesis that Sherlock longed so desperately to disprove.

Now that John had disappeared inside the doorway, Sherlock’s allowed his elbow to buckle and he fell sideways against the brick wall. He leaned there a moment, acknowledging the physical restraint it had taken to not approach or call out to his friend. So everything was true then. It could devastate John’s entire way of living if Sherlock returned. The detective closed his eyes and tried to smother any emotion that accompanied the realization. He was startled by his phone vibrating in the pocket of his jacket.

‘What are you doing?’

Emitting a derisive snort, Sherlock quickly replied. ‘You know exactly what I am doing. -SH’

‘Do you see now?’

‘I not only see. I observe, Mycroft. -SH’

‘It is your decision, then.’

Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket. “When was it _not_ my decision?” His disgust with his older brother had only expanded over the past three years. Sherlock blamed Mycroft for Moriarty’s ability to manipulate him so. Admittedly, he was a bit quick to cast that blame onto his brother, but there was comfort in his anger, and Sherlock had no reason to resist the simple things that would allow him comfort.  In addition to that, there was the fact that Mycroft had been in contact with John. The doctor had forgiven Sherlock’s brother, and even confided in him at times. Not knowing whether that forgiveness would be extended to him, a childish bitterness had festered in Sherlock until he could barely stand to be in contact with his brother for any reason beyond information about John.

Sherlock became aware that he was practically panting. He took a deep breath before picking himself up from the wall and retreating in the direction of Molly’s flat. He’d had enough for one day. He did not need to observe anymore tonight, and he felt his forty hours without sleep pulling at his eyelids with heavy fingers. In addition to that, he felt intense exhaustion from the sight of John and the thoughts that accompanied it. _Strange._  He had not been expecting the fatigue that ate away at him.

The deflation caused by his research slowed Sherlock’s walk to a weary march as he approached the door to Molly’s building. He could only promise himself that he would see John again soon, and that kept him moving as he climbed the stairs and tried to avoid the mental image that he had touched on earlier. Hatred, John’s eyes.

The cushions of the couch met his weight in a rough embrace urged on by gravity. His eyes closed and Sherlock released the sigh that he had not even realized he was holding in. His hand, hanging over the edge of the sofa, still held his phone. His fingers traced a pattern on its surface.

‘I’m not dead.’


	2. Bits of Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his last dream, Sherlock knew that he would have to do something. He needed to speak to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in a bit of a hurry to post. Hope I didn't make too many mistakes. I'll be posting the next chapter soon. Please let me know what you think.

Sherlock had very little trouble getting into the flat. The locks were much too outdated to pose any sort of threat to his abilities. He now carried small tools for this sort of instance, and John had even forgotten to fasten the lock that led to the living room where Sherlock now stood. Moonlight dripped its way through the blinds and illuminated the silhouettes of two armchairs, still angled towards one another after three years. John’s laptop sat on one and the other was distinctly vacant.

In a distant room, Sherlock could hear a familiar, light snoring. So John no longer slept upstairs. The detective crept through to the unusually tidy kitchen, careful to avoid the softer spots in the wooden floor that would creak under his weight. His mind flashed on the idea that he was now an intruder, no longer at home in 221B. He avoided the thought, and fixed instead on the fact that the sounds of John sleeping were coming from his bedroom. This thought was much warmer for him.

He reached the door, which was slightly ajar. The breathing was now unmistakable. Pushing just enough to admit himself into the room, he stepped inside. The warmth in Sherlock grew at the sight of John entangled in his sheets. A surprising amount of his personal items were still scattered about the place, almost exactly as he had left them. Perhaps John could not bring himself to get rid of them.

The breathing hitched a bit, and Sherlock thought he could make out a sob. It was then that he spotted, in the dim light, the tears climbing down from the army doctor’s eyes, sliding across the lined face wreathed in a light layer of stubble from a day of not shaving. Sherlock felt a mixture of emotions—a desperate sadness and desire to comfort, which was something quite alien to him apart from now, with John. _John._ There was also a slight hint of relief. So his best friend had not moved on completely. There were still nights when the loss was overwhelming. Sherlock was not left alone in mourning, despite the differences in each situation. These nights could keep them together, give them something to share in the absence of each other, of laughter, of clasped hands and knowing grins—of all of the things that Sherlock hadn’t known he wanted until he had been presented the reality of a sniper’s eye trained on John’s head.

He watched, reveling in the sensation of feeling that no one else could fully inspire in him. The whirring of his mind slowed and his predatory senses dulled. Without thinking of consequence or reason, he found himself crawling gently into the bed, towards John, laying against John, closer than he’d ever been. His fingers found the moisture on John’s face and lightly wiped it away. Sherlock moulded his body to his best friend’s from behind, wanting to feel John cease the slight crying that plagued his dreams, and wanting to satisfy his own desire for John’s presence.

“Sherlock.” The word was barely audible—a whisper that held so many things in it that Sherlock could not grasp it. Instead he let it wash over him and fuel the warmth. The warmth that John gave him, that nobody else could have or replicate. Sherlock could not resist humming lightly as he buried his nose in John’s hair. _John._ His arm snaked its way around the doctor’s side in a half embrace.

Sherlock’s fear melted away. In sleep, he did not have to worry about the hatred, the icy flames in John’s eyes. He could bathe in the contentedness of simply being there with him. There were no urgent, painful memories to be talked through. It was just so close to pure happiness that it was overwhelming. It was just so _this this this here now._ But it was not the real world.

Sherlock awoke to Molly standing over him, suddenly attempting to look as if she was not watching him in his sleep. The ghost of concern still haunted her features as she rifled through a stack of mail left on the coffee table.

“Did you have a nice nap?”

With slight embarrassment, Sherlock realized that his eyes were wet with tears. This was not the first time that he’d cried in his sleep. In the past week alone, he had dreamt of John Watson three times. Four, now. These dreams generally ended with his discovery that he had wept in his sleep, whether from sadness or relief. Never in waking hours did he cry—only when he dreamed of finally seeing John. It was more alarming evidence of this pitiful state of helplessness that he despised.

Without gracing Molly’s meaningless question with an answer, Sherlock stood and went to have a shower. Upon reflection, he marveled at how utterly affectionate his dream had been. Of course, various fantasies of his reunion with John were by no means new to him. He was certainly obsessed with the concept. However, in all of the range of dreams his mind had previously concocted, never had something quite so… tender occurred. Generally, John punched him in the face or cursed at him profusely. There was usually anger, except the time that Sherlock had fallen asleep watching a Spanish soap opera and had dreamt that John had kissed him—a completely carnal interlocking of lips and entwining of tongues that had left Sherlock disoriented when he had awaken. He had dismissed that as the influence of the television show. But _this._ This was something completely new.  

As the hot water beat down on him, Sherlock attempted to clear his mind of the subject of his dreams. Instead, his focused on his plans for tonight, and how god awful the water pressure in Molly’s shower was. He stepped out and wrapped a towel around himself and leaned against the bathroom counter for a moment as the steam cleared from the room. A buzz came from his phone, which was sitting in his pants pocket on the floor. Sherlock knelt down to find it, his mind flickering through fantasies of who he wished the text would be from. However, he knew very well who it was.

‘I finally got back in contact with Lestrade. He says that the case is finally closed about Richard Brooks. Your name is cleared, in case you ever decide to come out of hiding.’

‘Did you tell Lestrade the truth? –SH’

‘No. Unfortunately, he still believes you to be dead. I thought that I’d leave that up to you to reveal, when you’re ready.’

‘Might be a bit longer. –SH’

‘I figured as much. Let me know if you require assistance.’

Sherlock tossed his phone back onto his pile of clothes and returned to his planning. He was curious to find out who John was spending his time with. Based on the schedule sent to him by Mycroft, the doctor would be getting off of his shift at the hospital at six o’clock. Sherlock could follow him from there. He was quite eager to learn more about John’s lifestyle, as he did not find the information given to him by Molly and Mycroft sufficient to decide how he was going to go about this whole reunion process. After his last dream, Sherlock knew that he would have to do something. He needed to speak to John. He was not willing to remain in this state of desperation. It was just so disgustingly human. Perhaps he could release himself from his nasty fissure of emotions if he could just somewhat reassemble his life.

Sherlock gathered his clothes and stepped out into the living room. Molly had already left again, probably in an unnecessary, sympathetic attempt to give him some privacy. She did that quite frequently. He went to the large traveling bag that was sitting on the floor next to the couch and dug out another set of clothes. Glancing at his phone, he noted that he had an hour to be outside of St. Bart’s. Perhaps he’d eat a quick dinner to avoid that weary feeling that he’d experienced on his last expedition.  Sherlock noticed that Molly had left a container for him on the table, and he extracted his phone once more to send her something of an apology for his ignoring her. So many apologies recently—they spoke so much of his efforts towards consideration. _God, I’ve really gotten soft._

 

***

 

It was raining when Sherlock arrived near St. Bart’s. He concealed himself besides a building across the street and kept his eyes fixed on the entrance to the hospital. Within minutes, he spotted John exiting quite punctually, stopping to chat with a co-worker before beginning to walk towards Baker Street. Sherlock stayed one block behind him, ducking in and out of alleyways as necessary. John seemed distracted by his phone, on which he appeared to be in the midst of some sort of text conversation.

When they arrived at the flat, John entered, and Sherlock made his way around the building. He had considered waiting across the street, but curiosity got the best of him. Instead, he found a familiar set of pipes on the building next door that, when scaled properly, allowed him an angled view through his old bedroom window.

Down the hallway, Sherlock could see John tinkering about in the kitchen, probably making tea. The bedroom was unlit, so he could not accurately judge whether the image in his dream had been equivalent to reality. Then, Sherlock was startled to notice something moving on his bed. It was a small black mass that stood out slightly from the darkness. It seemed to be rolling over onto its back. _A cat?_ That certainly caught Sherlock off guard. _I’d have thought John more of a dog person._

The light flicked on in the room and Sherlock crouched further out of sight. John sat down on the bed and began to pet the animal. Sherlock took the opportunity to scan the room. It was not unlike it had been in his dream. Many things still stood in their place. His wall hangings were much the same. The bed was neatly made, and didn’t look like it had recently been slept in. So his fantasy about John sleeping there was not real. Sherlock was reluctantly deflated a bit by that discovery. He willed himself not to fall further, into another level of this disturbing emotional compromise.

He studied John, who was now teasing and playing with the cat. It was extremely thin and black. As it rolled over to chase John’s fingers, Sherlock caught sight of its unusual blue eyes. He wondered where it had come from, whether the doctor had bought it from some pet shop or brought it home from a shelter. What could have motivated this purchase? Probably want for companionship—that was generally the reason that people adopted pets. Sherlock leaned in a bit from his perch, and couldn’t help but smile slightly when he saw John was talking to the animal. He imagined a playful, higher pitched voice. Perhaps a silly nickname for the small thing. The scene was so normal, so human, and rather than be repelled by the banality of it, Sherlock experienced that John warmth that he’d felt in his dream.

As he leaned in a little further, his phone buzzed loudly against the keys in his pocket. _Damn._ Sherlock’s insides turned to ice as he saw that John had reacted to the sound and was probably less than a second away from tracing its source with his gaze. Sherlock swiftly adjusted his position to hide himself in the darkness, but the rain had made the pipes slick. Instead, he slipped and slid down. Realizing that his hands were inevitably going to lose their grip on the wet surface, Sherlock focused his attention on a soft landing. His attempt to brace himself was successful apart from the awkward angle of his left ankle, which supported an unmanageable portion of his weight when gravity brought him in contact with the ground. There was a distinct, painful snap. Before Sherlock could focus on the injury, he scrambled silently out of sight on hands and knees in case John glanced downward out the window.

In the shelter of a trash bin, Sherlock was able to examine himself. The ankle was definitely broken. He cursed his phone as he yanked it out of his pocket. Then he moved onto cursing himself. How, _how_ could he have been so stupid and forgotten to silent it? He did not forget things. He was Sherlock Holmes. All of these ridiculous emotions were costing his abilities to reason, to plan.

The text was from Molly. ‘Are you coming home tonight?’

He took a deep breath and shoved his anger aside. It was not Molly’s fault, it was his own. As utterly annoyed as he was, he would not take it out on her.

‘Yes. I will be there soon. -SH’

Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket and made his first effort to stand. He failed. Pain surged up his leg, and he had to stop himself from crying out. Biting his finger to avoid making noise, Sherlock used his right leg to bring himself to a standing position, and braced himself against the wall behind him. _Well, this makes my plans a bit more difficult._

Knowing that he could no longer hope to follow John in a stealthy manner, Sherlock began his walk back to Molly’s flat. He made it approximately half a block before he gave up and hailed a cab. His ankle was throbbing intensely and swelling at a rapid rate. Based on the points of pain and the position of the bones, Sherlock guessed that there were at least bimalleolar fractures. Possibly worse. Walking would not be easy for quite some time. He hoped that Molly would help him set the bones.

When he reached the door of Molly’s building, Sherlock stared into the window at the steps for a moment. The probability that he would be able to ascend them was not promising. He buzzed Molly’s apartment.

“Hello?” The small speaker crackled to life, distorting her voice slightly.

Sherlock held down the call button to respond. “Molly, it’s me. I need your assistance with something.”

“I’ll be right down.” The worry had returned to her voice, as well as suspicion.

The pain was now causing white spots to burst and obstruct his vision. He shifted the entirety of his weight to his right foot and tried to slow his heart rate with conscious commands of _in_ and _out,_ directing the cold air and his lungs. The door opened, and Molly’s breathing was accelerated from racing down four flights of stairs. “Sherlock! What happened? You’re pale as a sheet!”

“Thank you for the clichéd simile, Molly. Would you mind helping me up the stairs?”

Molly wound herself in his arm and took a good portion of his weight on her shoulders. They hobbled inside on three legs, and she was unable to contain her inane observations. “You injured your leg?”

“My ankle, evidently.”

“Did you fall?”

“Yes. Seems to be my pattern.”

She frowned at his joke, but was silenced by their combined efforts to make it up the stairs. With heavy use of the railing, and an unattractive amount of grunting, they arrived on the third floor landing. Molly pushed open the door that she’d left unlocked in her rush downstairs. “Sherlock, sit down. I need to look at it.”

After a dining chair had been set near him, Sherlock obliged, stretching out in relief to be seated once more. Molly rolled up his pant leg and examined the injury for several minutes, occasionally prodding it with her fingers and noting the pain in Sherlock’s face. Brown and blue was blotting out the white skin  his ankle at a rapid rate.

“Not good. At least two fractures. Probably more. You need to have this x-rayed, Sherlock.”

“Can’t you just set it here?” Sherlock sounded almost whiny, like a child being forced to take a bath.

“Not without seeing the break. I don’t have the things I’d need.” Molly snatched her purse off the table. “C’mon. I have to take you to the hospital.”

Despite his initial instinct to protest, another round of throbbing convinced Sherlock to follow Molly’s orders. His mobility had further deteriorated, and Molly had to make a great deal more of effort to remove him from the building. Of course, the nearest hospital was St. Bart’s; Sherlock knew that this was going to put quite a damper on his attempt at concealed identity. He at least knew that John would not be there anymore tonight, so he pushed concerns about the icy fire away. He could have at least one more anticipatory dream before facing that reality, and that knowledge was enough for Sherlock to allow Molly to carry him off into the London evening.


	3. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His focus was completely consumed by John’s face, furiously cataloguing everything. Not like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“No, Mycroft, I do not have an eating disorder. I simply refuse to eat something that has evidently already been digested.” Sherlock poked at the lump of potatoes on his tray with his fork. It proved to be quite unyielding. Mycroft chuckled at his younger brother.

“What, may I ask, is so _humorous_?” The word shot from Sherlock’s lips like a poisonous arrow. Mycroft appeared to be immune to the venom.

“Well, the sight of you in a hospital gown, for one thing.” Mycroft smiled facetiously at Sherlock’s frown. “Don’t fret, dear brother. It fits you well.” He glanced at the tube feeding into the detective’s arm. “It’s a good thing you’ve never minded needles.” The quip burned, and Sherlock had to resist making another remark about his brother’s waistline.

He followed Mycroft’s gaze to the IV. “Hardly necessary. Honestly! I come in to be treated for a broken ankle and end up hospitalized for dehydration.”

“I’ve been telling you to eat more for months.”

“Well, excuse me for being hesitant to follow _your_ advice regarding my diet.”

Instead of looking insulted, Mycroft replied with an infuriatingly calm smile. “I suppose that I deserved that.” He moved to sit down in the chair beside the bed.

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Feel free to not bother making yourself comfortable.”

“Do not worry. I won’t be staying long.“

“Yes, yes. Places to go. Country to run.”

Mycroft pursed his lips slightly and stared down at his hands. “Just out of curiosity, have you seen him here yet?” His eyes flicked upwards to meet Sherlock’s defiant stare.

Simply for the sake of being irritating, Sherlock feigned ignorance. “Who do you mean by “him”? The psychiatrist? In which case, yes. He was an obtuse prat.”

“I meant the doctor. _Your_ doctor.”

 _John._ “No, I have not. And I do not plan to. He does not work on this floor, anyhow.” Sherlock fiddled with his IV tube. “This treatment is absurdly drawn out. How could they possibly justify keeping me here for a second night?”

“Perhaps if you eat your food…”

“I will eat my food when they serve me something that is, in fact, food.”

“Your infantile behavior will not help your situation, Sherlock.” Mycroft stood, his hand on the railing of Sherlock’s bed. “I will text you tomorrow. Please inform me of any… important updates that occur between then and now.” He took three strides towards the door, paused, and turned around. “And eat your vegetables, for God’s sake!” With that, he exited the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his potatoes.

Sherlock fiddled with his fork, further dissecting the contents of his tray. Apparently, his four meals a week had not provided satisfactory nutrition for the physicians at St. Bart’s. He made a note to add more tea to his diet—that should take care of the dehydration problem.

Molly had pulled some favors and had him admitted to the hospital without revealing his identity. He was unsure what name he was meant to go by, so he refrained from speaking much to the staff. Molly had also secured him a room on the floor where he would least likely run into anyone he was familiar with—namely, John Watson.

 _“Now all you have to do,”_ she’d said, “ _is lay low until they’re finished treating you.”_ With her nervous frown, she’d added, _“It is probably best that you are cooperative.”_

So Sherlock had allowed the nurse to insert an IV full of fluids into his arm (even though it had taken three tries for the daft girl to correctly place the needle). He had remained in bed as advised, not attempting to stand on his brand new cast. He would not, however, stoop to eating the terrible food they gave him. Molly had stopped by earlier with a snack for him, but the doctor wanted him to have dinner as well. _Disgusting._ Sherlock pushed the tray aside and tried to focus on the mindless television program.

 

***

 

Two hours and five terribly predictable plot twists later, the nurse finally came to check on him. She spotted the tray full of food. “Not hungry?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response, his arms folded and his eyes still fixed on the t.v. screen.

“You know, we’re hesitant to release you until we see that you’re eating regularly.”

“I am sufficiently hydrated.” Sherlock shook the arm connected to the bag. “Malady cured.”

The nurse adjusted pillows underneath Sherlock’s leg and shot him an annoyed glare. “Eating is something that is necessary for survival.”

“You don’t say.” The detective sat up, knocking the newly adjusted pillows to the floor. He allowed the long-suppressed frustration and sarcasm to creep into his voice, speaking to the poor nurse as he would have to Anderson three years earlier. “Are there any other _things_ that are necessary for survival? Would you mind calling the doctor in here? My chest has been doing this strange _thing_. It keeps moving up and down, as if it is filling with… oh, I don’t know… air, perhaps? I cannot seem to properly prevent it. Is this one of those _things?_ Or am I going to have to stay in here for another week or so?!” His voice crescendoed to a shout as he brought his rant to an end.

The nurse hurried from the room, visibly holding back several curse words as she turned towards the door. Sherlock would no doubt receive a call from Molly about this incident. Perhaps his outburst would even merit a scolding from Mycroft. One could always hope.

Impatience was definitely eating away at Sherlock. While he had thought that his tedious life stuck in Molly’s apartment was his own personal hell, this sterile, white confinement was another layer entirely. He was eager to return to his research, and to continue his small steps towards overcoming his irritating obsession. _John._

 

***

 

Footsteps.

Sherlock started a bit, unsure if he had been asleep or simply dosing in the familiar space of his cognizance. Nurses generally avoided checking on him at night. He suspected that they preferred him unconscious, and did not want to risk waking him.

Definitely footsteps.

He turned over, towards the small amount of light shining through the window in the door. A male figure stood in the center of the room, facing him in the darkness.

Sherlock scrambled to a sitting position, much more clumsy than usual due to the weight of his cast. His instincts kicked in, and his mind targeted vulnerable spots on the silhouette. _Solar Plexus. Throat. Lower Ribs._ The heaviness encasing his ankle brought a hint of panic to mingle with his thoughts.

“Sherlock.” The voice was a hoarse whisper that immediately cleared away the contemplation of self-defence. Sherlock’s body remained tense, his pulse still elevated, but there was a sense of weightlessness in his head.

“Sherlock,” the voice repeated, and there was a bit of raggedness. _Tears?_ And then the shadow took a step closer. Sherlock found himself involuntarily reaching out to grab the arm of the intruder, but they were still too far apart.

“John.”

“It’s you, then.”

“Yes.”

John paused, and Sherlock wanted to turn on the lights so he could see the doctor’s face and judge what was happening in his mind. He wanted to see the frown and creased forehead. Most desperately, he wanted John to take just one more _bloody_ step forward so that he could touch him, to know that he was really there. He did not completely believe in the shadow that stood before him.

The doctor granted him his wish, and Sherlock’s outstretched hand caught the fabric of John’s jacket. He fingered it lightly. The material was deliciously familiar, and he ever-so-slightly pulled it closer. John stumbled a bit as he followed the tug, and even took a few steps of his own.

Sherlock felt a hand on his face. Calloused and warm. He leaned into it, increasing his own proximity to his companion.

“You were dead.” Unmistakable tears.

“Never.”

“You were gone forever.”

“Never, John.” That word. _John._

“I thought…”

“Stop.”

A soft chuckle, muffled by tears. “Didn’t think I’d see the day when,” a hitch in breath, “Sherlock Holmes instructs me to stop thinking.”

“Please.”

The laughter deepened, and the doctor fell into Sherlock’s embrace. The kiss was wet with John’s tears and still messy from Sherlock’s disbelief and full of heat. Not just warmth, but pure heat. And Sherlock’s mind panicked when he realized that this, too, was not real. Just another fantasy, but he fought. He did not want to awaken to the empty hospital room again. Not again. Not alone.

The struggle was lost, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open as he scrambled for air. He disgustedly clawed at the tears on his face, unearthing the needle from his arm. The twinge of pain brought him further into the reality of the dark room. There was no more shadow, and the air felt solitary and chilled once more.

_Stop it. No more. You are pathetic._

Sherlock fumbled for his remote control and flicked on the television. Another re-run of the same show as before. In the bluish light he re-inserted his IV. He had ceased his crying, and began his effort to heave his mind from its infernal attempts to destroy him. Finally, he fixed a blank stare to the screen.

 

***

 

“The psychiatrist refuses to see you again.” Molly looked little and tired in the chair at his bedside. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt at her appearance. She’d been working even more than usual, partially in an effort to keep an eye on him, he knew. “Something about questioning the legitimacy of his degree?”

“He was asking me about my childhood.”

“They tend to do that.”

“I’ve yet to deduce why my reason for hospitalization requires psychiatric analysis.”

Nervousness flashed across Molly’s face, and she slowly began her reply, “I may have asked that he pay you a visit…” She gazed fixedly at her small hands in her lap. “I thought it would be good for you to talk to somebody.”

“Not necessary.” Sherlock softened slightly at the regret in Molly’s expression. He truly had an effect on her. “But thank you for your consideration.”

A pause. “I ran into him today.”

The change of subject was accompanied by the return of eye contact. Sherlock knew that Molly was no longer referring to the psychiatrist. “Oh.”

“He seemed well enough. A bit tired. He’s working a long shift here tonight…” Her voice trailed off. Her effort to make conversation had brought her back to their comfortable subject.

“Oh.”

The silence that followed prompted Molly to her feet. “Well, then. Better get back downstairs. Lunch break is almost over.”

“You didn’t eat,” Sherlock observed.

“No, but you did.” Molly glanced pointedly at the sandwich wrapper beside Sherlock’s bed and smiled. “Get your rest. Maybe I’ll take you home with me this evening.”

Sherlock returned her smile with a rare one of his own. “One can always hope.”

 

***

 

‘How has your evening been?’

‘Dinner passed without much event. Or mastication. Convinced that there is a competition to produce the most repulsive meal, and I am an unwilling judge. –SH’

‘You are a child.’

Sherlock tossed his phone aside, conscious not to allow a pout to cross his features. Molly’s shift seemed to be carrying on indefinitely, and he was anxious to be out of the hospital and dressed properly.  So far, he’d amused himself by irritating the nurses who came to check on him. Evidently, the evening nurse was still wary of him. His response when she’d dropped off his tray must have been disenchanting.

He glanced once more through the books Molly had brought him. Mostly romances that sparked no interest for him. A few classic novels that he’d already read. Re-reading them was pointless when he had them practically memorised.

Outside the door, he heard the voice of the nurse approaching. _Oh, goody._ Sherlock was grateful for any distraction, at the moment.

“Thank you so much for coming to help, Doctor. Dr. O’Conner gave me specific instructions to have him eat, and he’s been very difficult. He said you were more patient with these kinds of things, and if you weren’t too busy tonight…”

The voice stopped outside the door. Sherlock could see the nurse through the window, and smirked, ready for any mundane statements she’d make this time. _God, I’m vicious when I’m bored._

“Right here, Doctor.”

She’d brought company. Sherlock practically quivered with anticipation over the conversation he’d have with the new moron. Normal people could be such great entertainment, if you let them. He was looking for anything at all that would make time pass faster.

A clipboard followed the nurse’s direction as she held the door opened. Hands holding the board. An exhausted-looking man. Tan skin. Light hair.

_Fuck._

_Fuckfuckfuck._

If Sherlock hadn’t known it was biologically impossible at room temperature, he’d believe his blood to have frozen. His smirk dropped from his face. _Stupid. Fuck._

“Mr. Greene, I hear you’ve had trouble…” John finally looked up from the chart. The nurse was still half in the room, but Sherlock didn’t glance at her expression in reaction to his own apparent terror. His focus was completely consumed by John’s face, furiously cataloguing everything. _Not like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Molly assured me._

There was nothing. Nothing to read apart from the silence. Emptier than the room when Sherlock had awoken very early that morning. No tears. No anger. No fire. Sherlock realized that this was worse than the hatred. Indifference. No emotion at all. He waited for seconds that broke through space and time and danced cruelly on for hours, but there were still no words. No furrow of brow. No pursing of lips. No fist making contact with his face. No embrace. No lips locked. Nothing. And Sherlock could deduce nothing from nothing.

None of his dreams had occurred this way. There was always the smallest something—to give him hope. But there stood John Watson, silent and expressionless, clutching his clipboard and a pen. Eyes, dark-rimmed with lack of sleep. Shirt wrinkled. _Say something._

“John.” That word. Still only blank.

And then he was gone, down the hall. The nurse hesitated, staring confused and slightly afraid at Sherlock before following the doctor, letting the door swing closed behind her.

Sherlock did not cry. His fears of hateful fire were replaced by fears of the vacant features. It was colder than anything he’d imagined in the fantasies that now seemed like childhood musings of careers as pirates and princesses—meaningless in comparison to stark, hard reality.

He shoved the venomous sentiment from his mind as best he could. Sherlock took his phone in hand, and realized that he was shaking slightly. It felt absurd. He carefully typed out the reply to his brother.

‘He knows. –SH’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update. I've been quite busy, and I had to rush through a lot of it tonight. I really hope you like it. I'll try to update sooner.


	4. Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The difficulty could fade away, and they’d have the comfort of one another once more. Not this blank page of solitude. Not nightmares or memories. It could be reality.

Sherlock Holmes needed to be punished. He’d begun by denying himself cigarettes. However, this did not bode well for him. After having been deprived for three days in the hospital, patches no longer provided enough fuel for his thoughts. So he moved on to a more indirect route of penance by increasing his habit to one and a half packs a day, financed by the guilt fund Mycroft had established for him. A _semi-_ punishment, he supposed.

One cursed mistake after another. All due to his irresponsibility, for he could no longer cast the blame onto his phone, or his brother, or even James Moriarty. No, this was entirely Sherlock. Practically incapacited, and driven further into this absurd distress than before. The situation would be so much easier if he could just summon an ounce of apathy. But there was _John_. His best friend that he could no longer read—who was entirely blank, and cold, and did not seem to care. And so there was sentiment.

‘Please, John. –SH’

Seventeen texts, ranging from invitations, to pleas, to apologies. No responses. Still the useless nothing. Sherlock was reminded of Irene Adler’s dinner requests, but he was uncomfortable with the comparison. This situation was much more meaningful, wasn’t it? Or was this nothing? Did John not care? Sherlock had heard the words spoken to a gravestone. Mycroft had told him of tears and drunken rage and depression. It did not add up to nothing. It had to be some social behaviour that evaded Sherlock’s understanding of the world. One of those things that, when ignored, would illicit _that look_ from those around him, or an “a bit not good” from his blogger.

An apology would not be enough, then. There must be something more. An explanation or promise or meaningful exchange that would bring some feeling back into John Watson’s tired eyes. _His eyes._ They’d looked dead without anger, or awe, or some strange form of love as they gazed at Sherlock. They’d looked like pools of blood around fractured skulls. They’d looked like the futile scrambling for a pulse, only to find none at all. _Nothing at all_. The burial of an empty casket.

Sherlock returned his phone to his coat pocket. He was only allowing himself to text the Doctor once every four hours. Anything more was simply indulgence that he did not deserve, and he was worried that he would run out of things to say. He stood on the fire escape, not bothering to retreat back inside, as he would no doubt light up again in a matter of moments. It was infuriating enough that he seemed to be making no progress at all with John. Though having to endure withdrawal was rightly earned, he would not further his discontent by inhibiting his thought process.

“Sherlock!”

 _God, not again._ Molly had grown even more maternal, and much more irritating, since his return from the hospital. She expected him to remain indoors with his foot propped up on some pillow like an invalid. In the beginning, Sherlock had complied just to satiate her need to care for him, but when she had heard about the encounter between him and John (probably from Mycroft), she’d taken it upon herself to treat him like a fragile child. It was too much. Even with all the sentiment and emotion, Sherlock did not view himself as broken or in need of assistance. So he’d started venturing outdoors again.

“Sherlock, where are you?”

He remained silent, relishing the few independent moments before she spotted him through the window. “I thought I asked you to stop climbing out there. You’ll fall and break your neck!”

“You’re right, Molly. After all, I’ve never had a broken bone before, let alone several. I’m also typically a very clumsy and incapable person, and this rail, while it reaches well above my waist, does nothing to protect me,” the sarcasm visibly bit her and his eyes flashed as he took a drag on his cigarette. _Number nine, today._ “Wouldn’t want to have a _fall_. That would be most devastating. Please, Molly. Unleash your unrequited desire for companionship elsewhere.” The last line may have been too much—a bit not good.

Molly paused for a moment, obviously hurt. Sherlock squinted, for once unsure of her reaction. He’d never tested her kindness so blatantly. She seemed to make a decision, and approached the window with more aggression than he’d ever seen her muster. _Uh-oh._ Definitely too much.

“Listen, Sherlock Holmes. I understand that you’re going through some… things. But you’ve been nothing short of abusive since you’ve gotten out of that hospital, while I am doing my very best to keep you alive and in good health. I don’t give a damn about your thinking. You are _not_ going to climb around on my fire escape with your ankle broken the way it is, you hear me?”

It took Sherlock nearly a moment to wipe the embarrassing, stunned look off of his face. This was quite a change from the doting mother persona of that very morning. It was almost refreshing. “Yes, Molly.”

“You put that disgusting thing out and climb in here this instant.”

“Yes, Molly.” And he did, tossing the remainder of his cigarette into the alley below. Molly assisted him climbing through the window. It was unnecessary, but Sherlock decided not to comment. He allowed her to half-carry him to the couch, and even hobbled a bit more than usual for the benefit of her ego.

“Now,” Molly sat down beside him, her face still flushed, “I’m sorry that I went off like that, but your attitude has been very difficult to deal with lately. I don’t know what I can do to make things better, and you’re not exactly much of a help in figuring it out.”

“You don’t need to help me. I don’t wish to be difficult.”

“I’m going to help you, Sherlock. That’s what friends do. You asked me for help, and I’m helping you. Remember?”

“Yes.” Sherlock resisted any sort of quip that might set her off again. He did not recall anyone ever successfully demanding this much cooperation from him without putting a gun to his head or punching him in the face. It was quite an accomplishment.

Molly seemed to be returning to her usual, much milder self. She also seemed to be struggling with something. Normally, Sherlock would press her to speak already, but he just feigned patience and let her continue to pointlessly hesitate. He assumed she was about to talk to him about John, which she believed to be an extremely touchy subject. While the topic definitely carried some semblance of sentiment for Sherlock, it hardly warranted this dramatic side-stepping and tip-toeing that Molly insisted upon. It was as if she believed Sherlock would have an emotional breakdown at the mere mention of the name.

“He’s livid with me,” Molly finally spoke. It was not quite the conversation Sherlock had expected to have, but it was definitely preferable. Much more surface-level and detached from his own feelings, yet it was still information about John.

“You spoke with him.”

“Yes. He asked me if I knew, and I told him the truth. He started yelling.”

Sherlock frowned. John had yelled at Molly, but not him. Why not the same lack of response that he’d offered Sherlock? The reason for the detachment went beyond betrayal, then.

“He’s no longer speaking to me, I think,” Molly continued. “He says he can’t believe I knew and never told him, after all I’d seen.” She was beginning to tear up. _And she’s concerned about_ my _emotional stability._ If there was more information, Sherlock preferred to get through it before a crying fit broke out. He placed a box of tissues in her lap from the end table and laid an awkward pat on her back.

“Did he say anything else?”

“Not really. Just anger and a bit of cursing. He was devastated, Sherlock. I told you.”

So there was immense anger. Not directed at him, per say, but at least that was better than nothing. Sherlock could handle anger. God knows most of the people around him for extended periods of time tended towards the emotion, much to his apathy. But the anger was something to deduce from, an outcome to analyse. With data, Sherlock felt comfortable enough to plan again.

 

***

 

‘You do realise that this is practically an ambush, don’t you?’

‘I do not plan to attack him, Lestrade. –SH’

‘Not physically. No.’

The detective inspector had taken the news of Sherlock’s return surprisingly well. Supposedly, he had never been entirely convinced of the suicide in the first place. _“Figured you were too arrogant to go and off yourself. I was just waiting for the day when you’d stroll back into the Yard, asking for a case.”_ Despite all of Lestrade’s nonchalance about the situation, however, the reunion had culminated in a very sincere embrace, which may have been a reaction nudged along by several consumed alcoholic beverages. Sherlock simply accepted the hug without comment, appreciative that it was at least non-violent.

A week had passed, and Sherlock’s phone chimed once more with a text from Lestrade.

‘He’s going to hate me, you know. We’re friends. He trusts me.’

‘I will explain that it was against your wishes, and that I insisted. Satisfied? –SH’

‘No, but I’d love to see you with a black eye, so I’m going along with it anyway.’

‘Charming. I am most grateful. –SH’

Sherlock paced now, somewhat lopsidedly with his cast. Technically, he was supposed to be using crutches, but he felt his vestibular sense was hardly too insufficient to make up for the imbalance, and he suspected the fracture was much less severe than Molly had initially estimated. His weight caused no pain and did not seem to do damage, so he’d liberated himself from the annoying restriction.

He stood on the sidewalk outside of Molly’s apartment, avoiding the forbidden fire escape. Sherlock dug in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, only to discover that it was his last one for the day. Molly had insisted upon rationing his supply, and Sherlock had allowed it, still wary of defying her again. He considered walking to go buy some more, but Molly would be upset if she found out. Let her have her tiny comforts. Sherlock was leaving soon, anyhow, hence the anxious pacing.

When he finished his last cigarette, Sherlock glanced at the time on his phone and hailed a cab. Nine-thirty, Lestrade had stated. Leaving now would make him just a few minutes late—perfect for his situation. He jumped into the taxi and stated his destination: a pub not far from Baker Street.

Upon arrival, Sherlock pulled up the collar of his coat and calmed himself. He was finally going to get to see John face-to-face again. Well, presumably, if Lestrade kept his word. Sherlock suspected that there would be anger, but the only thing he feared was another blatant nothing. He would do his best to avoid that outcome for a second time.

Inside, the pub smelled of tobacco despite the ban on smoking in bars. Sherlock was not surprised by this. John had often reeked somehow of cigarettes after a night out with Greg, although he would not be shocked to learn that they’d had one or two themselves on occasion—the wondrous hypocrisy of inebriation. The bar was crowded for a Thursday night, and it took Sherlock a moment to properly scan it. There. John stood towards the opposite end of the room, just receiving his beer from the bartender.

Sherlock slowly approached, preparing the words in his mouth. _John. Please._ He needed desperately for John to stay.However, before he’d made it halfway, the Doctor turned to sweep his eyes across the room, in search of his expected company. Instead, his gaze met Sherlock’s, and there was a moment of nothing again. _No._ Sherlock closed the space between them with quick strides, arriving in time to hear a small _“fuck”_ muttered under John’s breath.

There was a second of silence, during which John stared at his drink. Sherlock refused to look away from John’s face, absorbing every line and detail that he could. “John, I need to talk with you.”

“I’m expecting someone,” John’s lips parted to add Sherlock’s name, but he seemed to almost choke on it, so he dropped the word, instead.

“Ah, yes. About that matter. The person that you are expecting is actually me.” Sherlock could not prevent the slight tone of guilt that accompanied his explanation.

John finally turned towards him, his face alight with disbelief. “Greg, too? Please tell me that he didn’t know the whole time…”

“No. He did not. But I did insist that he do me a favour and not show up here tonight,” Sherlock’s stare intensified now that the doctor was facing him head-on. Every clumsy patch of stubble was visible. The slightly out-grown haircut. It was overwhelming, every new piece of information in that familiar face. He gave his gaze a single moment more of the indulgent observance before he spoke again. “As I said, I need to talk with you.”

“About what, exactly, Sherlock?” The name was finally spit out, not without audible effort on John’s part. There was a deeply tired anger in his voice. “About how, until a week or so ago, I thought that you were dead? About how you’ve been back in London for months and you still did not say anything to me? About how fucking Molly Hooper has known more about you over the past three years than I have?”

“All of those things, I suppose.”

John laughed, cold and empty. “Yeah? I’m sure you have some brilliant explanation for all of that, don’t you? So you convince Greg to lure me here to listen.” His voice quieted and deadened, leaning back towards the _nothing_. “I saw you die, Sherlock. I saw them bury you. And I waited, I still waited…” Another choke. “I still waited for you to come back, but… three years? Honestly. I didn’t believe even Sherlock Holmes would do that sort of thing to me. For that long.” Sherlock could tell that he was losing John to the empty stare again.

“I was never completely positive that I was coming back. I could not be certain of anything, John. And I could not risk making you into a target. Not again.”

“But Mycroft. And Molly…”

“I required their assistance. You, on the other hand, were much safer not knowing.” Sherlock paused, judging that he was not really persuading John convincingly towards forgiveness. “I did not expect it to take so long.”

“After all the things you put me through, all the near-death experiences, it dawned upon you to protect me.” The emotion rose up once more in him, and Sherlock was silently glad that John had not yet decided to shut down. “Perhaps I would have rather been unprotected, Sherlock. Perhaps I would have rather died. You were my best friend, and you were a ghost. Can you even understand how…” John’s question died off into the look of disbelief and anger.

“No, John.” Sherlock finally responded, after waiting to see if the doctor would finish. “I cannot understand. I admit that. But the fact remains that I am here, and that I have been working restlessly for the past three years to be here. I have done everything I can to repair the damage so far, and I am willing to continue doing so. You’re safe, and I’d like to make things well again.” Sherlock could honestly not see why John was not keen to return to normalcy (or as normal as life at 221B could be).  The difficulty could fade away, and they’d have the comfort of one another once more. Not this blank page of solitude. Not nightmares or memories. It could be reality.

“Well, congratulations on your efforts.” John drained his glass and stood. Sherlock could tell that he’d lost him once more. He watched John’s face fall into an uncaring mask, and had to keep himself from reaching out to try and bring it back to life. _The eyes_. A black, silent cab ride. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” And he left Sherlock deafeningly alone in the crowded pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! D: Busy week-- lots of school things to take care of for next year. I will really try to finish them up faster now that I have more time. Please let me know what you think. Apologies if it seems a bit rushed at times.


	5. Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was staring at Sherlock crying, and Sherlock could tell that he was finally grounded in the reality that had tossed him about for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I had pretty much abandoned this when the school year started, as I got really busy and was just not inspired anymore. I figured it wouldn't matter, as I didn't think anyone really followed it. However, I started getting a surprising amount of kudos on it and comments asking me to post more, and I was really appreciative of people who actually read it and liked it. It felt terrible to leave you guys hanging, so I've set aside some time to work on it. Warning: It's been a while since I've done any creative writing, so the quality has gone down a bit, but hopefully I can improve it if I write some more. Thank you guys so much for leaving nice comments and kudos. I hope I don't disappoint. If people continue to read it, I'll really try to continue to post. I know that it sucks to read a fic, only to discover that it's abandoned.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Londoners bustled outside the coffee shop as John stepped inside. Life always went on, no matter what was dying inside of each individual. Life was cold, cruel fact. Inevitable. Sherlock stood across the street, watching it all, plotting his next struggle. For so much premeditation, he was certainly finding undesirable results. Perhaps there was something to be said for acting without thought.

He’d followed John from the door of 221B to where he stood now. He knew that he could not count on any mental script for his next encounter, if John was going to insist on being so unreadable. Unpreparedness would have to be another part of Sherlock’s penance. Going into battle without a weapon, only useless hope. Sherlock stepped out into the street.

The interior of the shop smelled of a sickly sweet mixture of flavours. It was a place that they’d never visited together. Possibly, whoever was meeting John there had suggested it. Sherlock preferred a home-brewed cup of tea to being surrounded by the predictable crowd that such establishments attracted. But there was John, and Sherlock would not let that slip through his grasp again.

Two weeks of more nothing to numb Sherlock’s mind. John certainly was resilient in his anger. Or apathy. Sherlock wanted to believe it was rage, but every day that had passed nudged his conclusion further from desirability. He’d decided to act again, against Lestrade’s advice, and returned to his watch across the street from 221B. It was not as if he had anything else to occupy his time, and, honestly, this reparation was the most important thing on his mind. Sherlock had made no effort to hide his presence from John, but the doctor did nothing to acknowledge him. That morning, Sherlock had decided to follow John to the coffee shop in which he now stood.

John sat alone at a table, glancing through a newspaper. He looked more presentable than he had at the pub, his face now shaven and his clothes fresh and ironed. Sherlock allowed a moment of hesitation, but when John did not look up, he approached the table and sat down.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket and slung it across the chair behind him.

John pursed his lips and continued staring at the paper. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke again. “Do you come here often?”

“Well, you would know if I did, wouldn’t you?” John finally looked up, clearly resigned. The tired lines reappeared on his forehead as he folded the paper and shoved it aside. “You’ve been watching me for days. It must be nice to have so much free time on your hands.”

“You know what I think about free time.” John was finally speaking to him in a somewhat civil manner, so Sherlock tried not to say anything to trigger another fight. “I wanted to… talk.”

“Well, you know what, Sherlock? I wanted to talk three years ago when I was watching them lower you into the ground. Or when I was sitting alone in an empty flat wondering why. Yeah. It would have been nice to talk to you then.” John put his head in his hands and took a breath. Sherlock’s fingers twitched with the desire to reach up and pull them away so he could see everything.

“I’ve already explained…”

“Yes. You were _protecting_ me.” John spat the word in a quiet voice and Sherlock winced. Suddenly, John sat up straight, his expression sober. “I can’t talk about this right now. You need to go.”

“We need to discuss this John. I’m not going to leave things like this.” Sherlock heard desperation in his voice, and cleared his throat with slight embarrassment.  
“Fine. But not now. I’m meeting somebody. Come to the flat around seven.”

“Somebody?” Sherlock’s curiosity about John’s new friend arose once again.

“Not. Now.” John flashed him an extremely stern look, halting the conversation. Sherlock took one last moment of hesitation before standing and swiping his coat from the chair. On his way out the door, he saw an attractive blonde woman approaching through the window. She smiled and waved at John. Sherlock held the door for her as she entered, letting it fall shut behind her. Then he began his walk home.

***

A black cat stretched lazily across Sherlock’s shoes, glaring up at him with blue eyes. Sherlock wondered faintly about the unusual genotype that would be required for such a colour in a feline, but he was distracted when John sat down across from him, holding a cup of tea. John pointedly did not offer one to Sherlock. _Fair enough. At least he’s speaking._ “John we need to talk.”

“That’s about the fifth time I’ve heard that. Not counting the texts. We did talk, Sherlock.” John had the same resigned tone that he’d had in the coffee shop—he sounded incredibly exhausted. Sherlock wondered if he had been lying awake at night as well.

“No. We need to speak without you storming out. There has to be a solution to this conflict. I’m not willing to leave it like this.”

“It’s not a logic puzzle,” John gave him an incredulous look, and Sherlock suddenly felt like a child. “Sometimes things just aren’t okay. We’re not okay. Talking about it doesn’t change it. That kind of hurt doesn’t disappear, Sherlock.”

“No. That’s not it, John.” Now, face to face, Sherlock could feel relief. There was no apathy or hatred, just anger. He could finally, _finally_ deduce what John offered. “You’re glad I’m back. You can’t sleep. You want to talk to me, but you want to punish me more. You want me to feel an immense amount of guilt, and I do, but I’m not going to apologise for saving your life. And I know that you are glad that I’ve been following you. Yes, John, you are indeed my highest priority at the moment, so you can bask in that little bit of pride it gives you to see me so desperate.”

John paused for a moment, and even looked slightly embarrassed. Sherlock knew that he had accurately described many of the doctor’s emotions, and smiled slightly. “It’s alright John. Schadenfreude is part of human nature.”

Again, there was disbelief in John’s face. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t completely right. “You think I take joy in your pain? No, Sherlock. I’m not a monster. This isn’t some scheme to punish you.” John halted. “Alright, well, maybe recently I have been a bit stubborn. But you just really don’t understand, do you? Everything was so, so bad for so long. Every day, Sherlock.” John stopped, inhaling deeply. He was visibly shaking.

“Then _make_ me understand, John.” Sherlock jerked forward in his seat, startling the cat at his feet, which leapt up and darted from the room.

John looked at him in an distrustful way that truly bit, but Sherlock did not look away, and John finally softened. “Three years, Sherlock. That’s a very long time.”  
“I’m quite aware,” Sherlock countered, not blinking. “I’ve been experiencing time at the same rate.”

John laughed slightly. “I’m not sure you have…” He glanced downwards. “I didn’t know what was real. For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to accept it, that you were… well, dead. Even though I saw you on the ground, and I couldn’t find your heartbeat. And then, I had to be faced with the reality that you were human and not some… great, immortal man who knew everything and was unstoppable. And now you’re back, and I have to question it all again, after so long…”

“I’m real, John.” Sherlock reached forward and grabbed John’s hand. It was warm, and he could feel John’s blood flowing through it. But John flinched and pulled it away.

“I know that, Sherlock. I can see you.” But John looked practically betrayed by the physical contact.

“I don’t know that you do. But I am real. I’m here. I was never dead.” Sherlock reached and grabbed John’s hand again, holding on this time. He felt tears in his eyes that were finally real, and he knew that he wasn’t going to wake up on Molly’s couch again.

John was staring at Sherlock crying, and Sherlock could tell that he was finally grounded in the reality that had tossed him about for so long. John didn’t pull his hand away. He simply stared as Sherlock had in the pub, taking in everything he could of his best friend.

“There are so many little things that I never thought I’d miss.” John was still staring, his lips barely parting to speak. “Like the violin. I’d come downstairs whenever I thought I heard it. And the smell of cigarette smoke. Stupid little things. They were worse than seeing your gravestone.”

“I drank beer.” Sherlock said it without any thought, and John looked confused. Sherlock sighed and explained. “When I was alone, I drank your favourite beer, even though I hated the taste. Honestly, you’d think they could improve the flavour by now. But I drank it for the smell. Sentiment… I guess. I never thought I would have trouble with being alone.”

John chuckled again, and his laughter was beginning to sound warm. “Well, I would have liked to watch that. At least I don’t feel like such an idiot.” He pulled his hand from Sherlock’s and stood, stretching. Sherlock sat back again, shoving his hand into his pocket, and trying not to feel silly for not realizing that he had been holding John’s hand the entire time.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment and then spoke. “Would now be a terrible time to ask if I could move back in? Molly’s couch is becoming exponentially more uncomfortable each day.”

John looked as if he was going to say no, but he stopped himself to consider. Sherlock willed himself not to feel hope, given that he’d only just convinced John to actually have a conversation with him. But the longer John stayed silent, the more Sherlock thought that maybe, just maybe, things could go the way he wanted. He could stop with his constant worrying and skulking about the streets of London and return to something familiar. Finally, John pursed his lips and sighed.

“Alright.”


	6. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins the process of moving in. John begins the process of moving on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Wow. So, I've had this chapter sitting half-finished for nearly two years and I kept forgetting about it, especially after the third series premiered. But I started getting kudos again, and was overcome with the sudden urge to continue the story. So if you guys will bear with me, I'd like to start posting chapters again, even though it's totally AU now. A million apologies to all of the readers I abandoned. I suck hxcore. x.x
> 
> If it's any consolation, I'm getting to work on the next one immediately. Aiming for at least weekly updates (fingers crossed). I really do want to keep my promise. Anyone who returns to reading this after such a hiatus is awesome (two years? Crazy right? Almost unheard of in the Sherlock fandom...)
> 
> Sidenote: I tossed in some tipsy!Sherlock to try to make it up to you. More gooey fluff and angst to come. <3

“John. It’s looking at me.”

Sherlock stood in the centre of the living room, surrounded by boxes. John had managed to salvage what he could of the detective’s previous possessions. Most of Sherlock’s things had been locked up in storage—Mrs. Hudson had kindly offered the use of 221C when John expressed that he did not want to throw everything away. Unfortunately, a decent portion of the lot had been donated. Sherlock cringed at the idea of a secondary school child using his microscope.

The cat sat perched on one of the boxes, staring intently as Sherlock rummaged through another container. Despite Sherlock’s efforts to shoo it from the room, the cat continually returned, fixing its blue eyes on him with what he perceived as a judgemental stare.

“ _It_ has a name,” John called from the bedroom, where he was dusting.

“My apologies. _Conan_ refuses to vacate. What do I do?” Sherlock shouted, clearly growing frustrated.

 When he asked to move in with John, he had not meant to assume that they’d be keeping the pet. Normally, Sherlock worked relatively well with animals—very predictable behavioural patterns and drives. But _this_ cat… it seemed to have an unusual amount of emotional perception, as well as expression. Sherlock felt as if he were standing in a room with another human, one that did not seem pleased that he was there.

John finally poked his head in and looked sternly at the cat. “Down,” he said calmly, and the feline leapt from the box and darted into the kitchen. The doctor then fixed his eyes on Sherlock. “You know, he has just as much a right to be here as you do. In fact, he’s technically been living here longer, so…” John shrugged and retreated to his dusting.

“I’m _sure_ he contributed greatly to the rent, too.” Sherlock muttered to himself as he unearthed a battered Oxford dictionary from beneath a stack of newspaper clippings. Despite himself, he smirked. Even with the new feline presence, he could feel himself falling back into a routine—something safe and even comforting. It was strange how much three years as an outlaw would completely re-route one’s priorities. The domesticity of bickering with John was exactly that little bit of warmth he’d been desperately stalking after just a few weeks ago in the alleyways of London.

As if on cue, John appeared in the doorway, holding a sealed jar containing something greyish-orange, and very questionable. “Sherlock, what is this? I found it in a drawer…”

 “Fungal sample. Throw it out.”

John flashed him a revolted look and disappeared once more. There was a thud as he tossed the jar into a garbage bag.

The past week had been… well, it had been the best week Sherlock had experienced in a long while. John had begun responding to his texts, helping to finalize plans for the move. The replies began stiff and formal, but quickly dissolved into friendly interactions. Friendly in the sense that the Doctor’s snarky responses had just as much affection to them as edge. They’d gotten coffee once more, discussed the living agreement. Sherlock had been told that he’d have to be more respectful as a flatmate this time around. Sherlock had nodded in agreement, with no actual plans to follow through. John had pretended that he believed him. Things were normal.

He pulled out a photo, torn from a newspaper. It showed him in the wretched deerstalker, paled even further than average by the flashes of cameras. The blurry image of John’s profile could be spotted in the background. A headline above the photograph read ‘ _Consulting Detective Commits Suicide_ ’.  It had been buried in the box with Sherlock’s meticulous archive of major London crimes and interesting tidbits of news—another piece of death that John had added to the collection.

“We’ve been at this for almost five hours.” John was standing in the doorway once more, arms folded over his chest. “I think it’s time for a break.”

Sherlock’s gaze flitted upwards from the clipping to John, then back down.

“Do you want to go out and grab a pint?” John went on, unable to see the photo in Sherlock’s hand. “There’s a place down the block. We can finish this up tomorrow.”

Sherlock closed his fist, crumpling the paper into a ball before tossing it into the bag of trash beside him. He didn’t particularly desire beer or the company of strangers.

“That sounds fine,” he answered.

***

“For someone who was trying to be inconspicuous, you were really being a shit. I can’t tell you how many nurses I heard insulting you in the canteen. There was a petition to have you sedated.”

John was on his fourth drink, flushed and grinning—nothing like the last time they’d been in a pub together. Sherlock was making an effort to keep up, but his tolerance was much lower, and his vision lagged around the edges when he moved too quickly. His face felt uncomfortably hot.

“I may have been… stubborn.” Sherlock tipped his glass towards his lips, grimacing at the taste of the foamy liquid. He still stuck with his opinion that beer had a generally revolting flavour, but there was a heartiness to it that he was beginning to detect more and more with each round. It reminded him of his trip with John to Baskerville.

“ _Stubborn_ ,” John repeated. “Is that some Czech word for ‘arrogant prick’ that you picked up on your travels?”

Sherlock smirked, unable to be offended by the jibe. “Hungarian.”

John smothered his laughter with a knuckle between his teeth. “I hate you, Sherlock Holmes.” Funnily enough, the statement seemed to hold the most affection of any John had made all day. “What time is it?”

“Half past ten.”

“One more round,” John proclaimed. “Then we’ll head back.”

Sherlock raised a hand to signal the bartender.

***

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” John _giggled_ from the place where he was stretched out in his chair. “No. I refuse to believe it.”

“I _did._ Right here.”Sherlock made an attempt to point at his own earlobe, though it was more a vague gesture towards the entire side of his face.

“You had an earring.”

“Yes. And a beard. I was attempting a Bohemian look.” Sherlock waved his hand, and his eyes followed the slight trail it made in the air. He leaned further into the arm of his chair.

“I would have given anything to see that.” John’s chin was propped on his fist, and he was sitting up a little straighter than Sherlock, though there was a slump to his posture as well. It was nearly midnight, and they had stumbled home along the streets in light-hearted conversation. John had been curious when Sherlock had mentioned the various disguises he’d donned over the past three years, and had requested details. “Did you get a tattoo?”

“No.”

“Shame. Why not? Afraid of needles?”

Sherlock offered John a derisive glare, and realization quickly swept over the doctor’s features.

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t really think that—“

Sherlock interrupted him with a dark chuckle, leaving him looking on in sheepish confusion. “It’s fine, John. I’m not honestly offended. No, I thought that any permanent body modification would be unnecessary. The disguises were simply a precau—“ It was Sherlock’s turn to be cut off, by his own loud hiccup.

“Uh-oh.” Now John was smiling, the worried expression gone from his face, and Sherlock mentally noted that he looked years younger like this. “Seems you’ve got the drunken man’s curse.”

“I do not.” The sentence was punctuated by another deep _hiccup._

“Yeah, you do.” John looked positively amused, one finger curling upwards around his jaw, resting where the edge of his lips were turned upwards. “Hold your breath.”

“I know how to— _hic--_ get rid of— _hic—_ hiccups.”

“Do you need me to scare you, Holmes?”

“I doubt anything you do could possibly startle me. You’re terribly— _hic_ —predictable.” Sherlock frowned at himself, frustrated that his malady made his sentences come out sounding childish.

“I dunno. I could jump off a building.” John pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows in mock consideration.

Sherlock blinked at him, unsure what to say. His lips parted. He had been preparing several apologies since the night that John agreed to let him move in. They hadn’t discussed the subject further, hadn’t even breached it, and the silence had been building. Sherlock knew that it was bound to burst, but his mind was too foggy to come up with a script of what came next. He stuttered wordlessly for a few moments, and then was halted by John’s wide grin.

“Looks like that did the trick.” 

Sherlock watched the man get to his feet, an aura of smugness surrounding him. He exhaled, and John walked over and gave him a heavy clap on the shoulder. “Let me get you some water.”

John retreated to the kitchen, and the detective sat there, honestly a little stunned. _It’s the alcohol_ , his mind quipped. Which was probably true—his limbs were weighty, and he could feel tiny bursts of soreness beginning in his joints. His promise to finish unpacking the next day would be painful.

“Here.” John had returned, brandishing a large glass of water. Sherlock looked up at him, his silhouette in the dim lamplight, searching for resentment and curiously finding none. If the inebriated human state carried any evidence of true inner emotion, John was not as angry as Sherlock believed him to be. He recalled something Molly had told him after he’d left the hospital, which at the time he’d dismissed as a platitude. _Sometimes it’s easier to be angry at a person than to admit to yourself that they’ve hurt you._

“Thank you.” Sherlock reached out, accepting the glass. He immediately took a long swallow, and his mouth no longer felt so dry, his tongue so tied up.

John took his seat again, his eyes drooping slightly. The effect was accentuated when he gave a long yawn. “I think it’s nearly bedtime. I’ve got work tomorrow afternoon.”

“Ah,” Sherlock intoned, taking another sip. His eyes were still glued to John, and he could feel himself squinting. He was still imagining Molly’s voice. _It’s easier to be angry at someone when you care about them. Anger is the best mask._ “Heading off then?”

“Mmm…” John hummed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the chair. “Not quite.” His voice was soft, sleepy, without any of the bite to it with which Sherlock was growing familiar. _It sounds nice._ “Why don’t you tell me about Budapest?”

Sherlock nodded slightly, even though John wasn’t looking. He relaxed again, not realizing how tense he had been. He moulded his spine to the cushions, turned just enough so that he could still peer at his flatmate. His cheek pressed into the cool leather beneath it, and the sensation was glorious.

“Where to begin?” He half-murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well, after nearly four months of digging, I discovered the second assassin was hiding out in an apartment about half a mile from the Arena Plaza. I asked Mycroft for the information of a Hungarian contact and he gave me the number of a woman he claimed to have met through official channels. Turns out she was an escort, with a penchant for over-cooking meat and a pet snake. I was overjoyed…”

Sherlock went on, rattling off an account of his travels, but over time the details became less and less distinct, and he found himself taking long pauses to rest his eyes, until eventually he fell asleep.

***

He awoke sometime later, curled entirely on his side in the chair. All the lights in the living room were off, and Sherlock lifted his head, disoriented, his cheek stinging as it separated with the leather. A blanket had been thrown around him, one that he recognized as an old comforter of John’s. There was a lingering ache in his temples, but otherwise no major signs of a hangover.

Reaching for his phone, he discovered that it was nearly five in the morning. Sherlock got up, gathering the blanket in his arms and tossing it onto the couch, less graceful than usual from the remaining beer in his system. He noted the strain in his muscles from sleeping coiled in the seat, and he desperately needed to urinate. On his way to the bathroom, Sherlock noticed that the door to his bedroom was open. He heard unmistakable snoring.

Peeking in, he found John, tangled up in the bedspread that had been freshly made only yesterday. His back was to the door, hair ruffled and jutting out from his scalp in odd angles. It seemed he had been too exhausted (or too drunk) to properly make it upstairs. The cat, Conan, who had assumedly been hiding since they’d burst into the flat the night before, was curled by his feet. It opened its eyes and regarded Sherlock, tilting its black, whiskered face upwards. He winced under its perception.

A memory struck Sherlock. The dream. Slipping into the apartment in the middle of the night and finding John there. Finding him crying. _Anger is the best mask._ Sliding down beside him and pressing into him. John turning around, dragging their lips together, pulling him closer until they were inhaling each other’s air. The bits of warmth.

Sherlock blinked. That hadn’t happened in the dream. _At least not_ that _one_. He shook his head, as if the action would unscramble the haze that had overtaken him, though he knew very well it was chemical.

John stirred, turning over, and Sherlock hastily retreated, not wanting to be seen watching his best friend sleep. There was already enough evidence of his being a psychopath stacked against him. When he was finished in the bathroom, he went back into the living room, finding a more comfortable spot on the couch this time, attempting to close his eyes for more sleep before he would inevitably be awoken and badgered by John to finish unpacking.

As he drifted off, though, he couldn’t stop playing images of more dreams, a mixture of new ones and previous ones, both blurred and fragmented. An IV drip and a pair of disbelieving eyes. The near-inaudible rustle of sheets. _You were gone forever._ The taste of tears and a kiss. A blonde woman, standing outside of a coffee shop. _You were my best friend, and you were a ghost._ A long black car.

Tortured layers, peeling back to reveal blissful unconsciousness--a blackness unhindered by foreign emotions that Sherlock could neither identify nor cope with.

The sound of an unfired bullet.

_Perhaps there are better masks than anger._


End file.
